Elsa's Story
by SheWhoMustNotBeNamed90
Summary: Major warnings here. This is a true story, I just changed the names. It mentions very briefly, one count of sexual abuse however, it is not at all explicit. Secondly, this story is about a paedophile grooming a young girl. I have removed a lot of details, this is mostly just a brief overview and I don't think it's too distressing to read.


**Major warnings here. This is a true story, I just changed the names. It mentions very briefly, one count of sexual abuse however, it is not at all explicit. Secondly, this story is about a paedophile grooming a young girl. I have removed a lot of details, this is mostly just a brief overview and I don't think it's too distressing to read.**

 **Why am I writing this you ask? Closure. Writing this story, _my_ story, and posting it publicly is my way of telling someone, because I don't have the strength to do so in real life. I also hope, that by sharing my story, I might help someone else who has had a similar experience to me speak up and realise that it is not their fault, it was never their fault and they need to forgive themselves.**

 **This story, however traumatic it is, holds a very important message and I just hope that that shines through and makes a difference in at least one person's life**.

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Elsa was a fifteen-year-old student at Arendelle High, she prided herself on being a conscientious student, she certainly wasn't the brightest girl in school but when she found a class she enjoyed she applied herself and gave it her all.

She excelled in drama and childcare, but her real talent lay in creative writing. She adored being able to express herself through her characters, pouring parts of herself into every story she wrote and often used her own experiences as inspiration for her plots. Within her stories, Elsa could manipulate her own life, or escape into a fantasy world.

Elsa often struggled at school, not with the work that was set, but with the social factor. She found maintaining friendships difficult and had already spent many years suffering through her deep depression. Her "friends" often grew sick of Elsa's unhappiness, whether that was because of their age and not quite knowing how to handle her depression or because they simply didn't care, Elsa didn't know. She would often find herself surrounded by her friendship group as they ate lunch but as soon as they'd finished Elsa would be left to sit at the table alone, forgotten about once again, her fingers tracing around the names they had carved into the wooden bench earlier that year. Sometimes she'd walk onto the school oval and find a shady tree to cry under or small cave created by low branches and rounded shrubs where she would hide and trace the white scars on her wrists with her finger tips.

She couldn't remember the first time she'd hurt herself like that, the scars littered both arms and her left hand, some were very faint, thin lines others were red, thick and deep. The three that sat on top of her left hand were the most recent and unlike the ones on her forearms, these were in plain sight, a desperate plead for someone to take notice and help her. She wasn't strong enough to seek help on her own but she just wanted someone to acknowledge her pain, to hold her and comfort her without pressuring her to talk. She just wanted someone to be there for her.

Elsa's saviour came in the form of someone unexpected. It was her English teacher Mr Westergaard. He was kind and caring and always took the time to listen to Elsa, even when she rambled on about nothing in particular and it brought her great comfort in knowing that _someone_ was there for her. English soon became the class Elsa most looked forward to, she applied herself even more and found her grades improved dramatically and she was now working above her year level. One term Mr Westergaard set them all a task, they had ten weeks to write ten creative stories on the subjects of their choosing. Naturally Elsa relished in the task and had written all ten stories in the first three weeks. The content varied dramatically, some were simple childhood stories others were full of horror and angst, but her favourite stories to write were always the romances. She often got carried away in what she was writing and would have to tone it down a little and make it suitable for school.

Mr Westergaard would shower Elsa in praise, telling her how he loved her work and could wait to see what she came up with next. Elsa would swell with pride and each complement would encourage to do better, to write more. She was eager to please her teacher, to keep his praise on her. She couldn't remember the last time someone had showered her in this much attention.

As time went on, Elsa started noticing things about her teacher, things that seemed to push the line of teacher and student. He would stand at the front of the classroom with his eyes trained on Elsa, he often paced around her desk as he spoke to the class or his fingers would graze over hers as he took the papers from her hands.

As the weeks passed Elsa started to become more uncomfortable around her teacher. He had taken to standing in front of her desk and would leer at her from above. Sometimes he'd walk behind her, bend down so his jaw rested just above her shoulder and would peer down her top. She noticed his eyes trained on her when she would bend over or how he licked his lips when he school shirt would rise up when she stretched.

Elsa knew that what he was doing was toeing a line but she was too frightened to say anything to anyone. She felt ashamed, like it was her fault, she did nothing to discourage him and if anything, some of her stories may have had the opposite effect. Even if she did find the courage to speak up who would believe her? She had no proof, no marks or evidence, it would be her word against his and who would believe a depressed little girl, desperate for attention over a thirty-something year old teacher respected by his peers? No one.

As his behaviour increased so did Elsa's harming. She would sit in her bedroom at night and would use a pair of scissors to run across the flesh of her arms or her fingernails to scrape away at the skin until it was red and raw. The nails were her favourite, they took longer, required more pressure and covered a larger amount of flesh. They didn't look like obvious self-harm marks and didn't scar as easily.

Yes, they were her weapon of choice.

There were multiple reasons behind Elsa's self-harm. Sometimes they were a cry for help, a silent plea for someone to reach out to her. Those marks were always the most obvious ones, deeper and cut into the flesh closest to her wrists and often on her hands themselves. Other times she hurt herself because she hated the way she felt on the inside, she felt ugly, disgusting, vile and wanted her exterior to match. But the main reason she hurt herself was because she couldn't cope with the pain she felt on the inside. Harming herself was a way to ease her emotional pain, the physical one was always much easier to deal with and she could watch her wounds heal and scar unlike the ones within that remained forever open and bleeding.

It was towards the end of the year the Mr Westergaard's behaviour well and truly crossed the line. One afternoon she was packing her bag after class, she was the last one left after becoming engrossed in her work, she didn't even realise the day was over. As she stood up her teacher walked over and pressed himself up against her back, pinning her against the table in front of her. He placed his hands on her hips and whispered into her ear;

"You've been a naughty girl, you need spanking." Elsa revolted under his touch but froze in fear and shock. She didn't know how to react and found herself feeling sick. Her teacher backed off and left Elsa to throw everything in her bag and race off out of class.

After school that day she walked around her neighbourhood. She felt dirty and repulsed but for some inexplicable reason she still craved the man's friendship. The very thought of it made her feel revolting but it was like an addiction, the praise and attention she got from her teacher filled that void and it didn't matter what kind of attention she got, he was still someone who showered her with praise. His actions weren't always bad, most of the time he was very sweet towards Elsa, professional and acted as a friend towards her. She walked to an overpass on one of the main roads and looked down, watching the cars speed past below her. Gripping the railing she mused over how easy it would be for her to just climb over those metal bars and end her suffering for good. Elsa knew she'd never do it, deep down she knew that life would one day get better, maybe after school had finished things would improve.

No Elsa didn't want to kill herself, but she wouldn't mind dying either. She often fantasised about doing something reckless like taking her parents' car and driving at full speed, weaving in and out of traffic, daring fate to take her. Other times she dreamed about running away, she loved the thought of living in America, making it to Hollywood, changing her name and starting out a new life for herself. One where nobody would know who she was or what she'd been through.

This wasn't the first time she'd experienced something like this. When she was eleven she was staying the night at her friend's place. Her much older brother had climbed into the bed with Elsa as her friend slept soundly next to her. He offered to read her a book but as he began he took Elsa's hand and forced her to touch him intimately. She softly told him no, she didn't want to wake her friend but she also wanted him to leave. The brother didn't listen and Elsa was forced to pull back her hand violently. With a huff, he left the room.

Elsa told no one, it was her fault. She'd been friendly with the boy, flirty even. She'd led him on. Just as she had Mr Westergaard with her stories and seeking out his praise. Yes, she was the one to blame. She had asked for this.

In the last few weeks of school Mr Westergaard's behaviour changed again, he became the man Elsa originally came to know. The one who was attentive to her needs, the one acting like nothing more than a friend. Who listened to her and showered her in praise, he became her closest confidant. Elsa started to feel better about herself, his praise stroked her ego and made her confidence grow. The self-harm slowed and she was excited to start at a new school the following year, to make new friends and maybe find someone special. She wasn't sure what made her do it, but she swapped phone numbers with Mr Westergaard -or Hans, as he'd asked her to call him- she knew she shouldn't have, she knew that it crossed a line, but he was all she had. Through all his faults, he still cared for Elsa and on some level, she had grown reliant on his affections, no matter how wrong they were.

During the school holidays, the pair messaged each other and kept in contact via Myspace. They both shared a passion for horses and he would often tell Elsa all about the ones he used to own. She frequently confided in her new friend, often forgetting who he used to be to her and would reveal a lot of personal things to him. It was easy to pretend he was someone else when he wasn't in front of her, when they only ever spoke through messages on their screens.

One day, Hans offered Elsa all of his old horse gear, his bridles and saddle, bandages and girths, even his old riding crops. Elsa was thrilled and so humbled that he'd chosen to give them to her. It meant the world to Elsa. Elsa's parents offered to pick up her chest of goodies from her old teacher but had demanded that Elsa stayed at home. She was annoyed at first, she couldn't understand why she wasn't allowed to go, after all he was _her_ teacher and those items were gifts for _her_. She wanted to thank him somehow and so she messaged Hans and asked what she could do to show just how thankful she was to him. He suggested that they could meet up in the city, she could take the train and tell her parents she was going to meet a friend. He said they couldn't know it was him, that it had to be their little secret. Elsa felt uncomfortable lying to her parents, but she was sure that if she told them who she was really going to see they'd disapprove and forbid her from going. She felt torn and in all honesty, a little unnerved. Her mind flittered back to all those times they were alone, when his touches or words became inappropriate and now that she was physically away from the man she could see just how inappropriate they were.

 _What are we going to do there?_ – Elsa had asked in her message.

 _Go to the water's edge and get a little wet if you know what I mean. ;-P_ – Came Hans's reply.

Elsa re-read the message over and over, alarm bells went off in her head. She knew exactly what he was insinuating and the truth behind their "relationship" hit her like a tonne of bricks. She felt sick and ashamed. She began to self-harm again but kept it all bottled up. Again, she blamed herself. She had led him on, she didn't stop it in the beginning when she knew he was toeing a line. If anything, she encouraged his behaviour, her reliance on his affection was too great to see the damage it was causing until it was too late.

As the years went by Elsa recovered more and more emotionally, she had stopped writing and told herself that it was because she no longer felt depressed and therefore had nothing to write about.

When Elsa was twenty-seven, twelve years after the abuse began Elsa had begun writing again. This time she wrote to express herself in a positive way, her depression was truly gone and she felt like a new woman. It was one night that she was thinking about her stories and what she wrote now and how different they are to what she used to write about when the reality of why she stopped in the first place hit.

It was because of him. Mr Westergaard, he was the reason she stopped. His abuse, the way he preyed on her made her stop, not her depression. The realisation hit her hard, she felt as though everything she had written since then was tainted because of him. She felt vile, sick, ashamed but she knew now, that none of this was her fault. She knew she wasn't to blame and she finally had a word for what he'd done to her. He'd groomed her. He was a paedophile, grooming her so that she would willingly run into his arms and give herself to him.

Elsa struggled with this revelation. She sat on her toilet whilst her son was at school and scratched at her left arm until it became red and raw. She found a pin nearby and ran it over her wrist from left to right repeatedly. The pain was different from what she remembered, she felt it more now but it still gave her that relief she needed form the internal torment she was experiencing. She felt wild and crazed, she wanted to do something stupid, reckless. She wanted to get away, she wanted to crash her car, she wanted to sell herself to the next woman she saw, she felt like she was fifteen again.

But Elsa had responsibilities, she was a mother now, she had a child who relied on her, whom she loved deeply and couldn't bear the thought of hurting him. So, she grabbed herself a coffee, drove a little too fast, turning corners tightly as she screamed along with the music blaring in her car with a cigarette hanging from her mouth.

This time things were different. Elsa was no longer that troubled insecure little girl, she had friends, family and coping techniques. Yes, the pain and hurt were still there and it wasn't something she could just forget or push aside, but this time she was okay. If there was one thing Elsa lived by the most, it was having no regrets in life. No matter what she went through, no matter how hard or traumatic it was, it still shaped her into the person she is today. Without those experiences, she may not be the strong independent woman she has become. Elsa is proud of who she is and wouldn't change a single moment from her past, after all, they are all learning experiences that help us to grow.

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 **A/N: Never let fear take over, never hide and NEVER blame yourself. Things will always get better. Here I am, alive and thriving. I'm happy, I have an amazing son and a wonderful mother, both who love me dearly and I love them just as much. I have friends, true friends and I have had some wonderful experiences. Be proud of who you are, wear your heart on your sleeve. Let it go. I have, I used to conceal, don't feel, don't let it show – that was my mantra for many long years, I was Elsa pre-eternal winter, I hid myself from the world. Then I watched this fabulous movie, it taught me to move on, to feel, to love. Let it go.**

 **And if you ever find yourself in this situation, tell someone! Tell anyone, everyone until someone listens, please, don't do what I have done and keep it locked away, it will only hurt you more in the long run.**

 **Hugs  
xxx**


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